It’s a sweltering fall Saturday in Buena Park at Knott’s Berry Farm, where Gary Wiskigeamatyuk is preparing to perform for guests as he has for the past 34 years.
Knott’s, as the park is commonly known, began as a roadside berry stand in the 1920s. It has long centered its storytelling around the western United States from the 19th and early 20th centuries, mainly in its replica Ghost Town.
The performer and educator was just a teenager when he was hired in the summer of 1992 when the Indian Trails concept was unveiled. The two-acre area was part of an effort to authentically share the history and culture of tribes from the Southwest, Northwest Coast and Great Plains of the U.S.
Decades later, he remains the park’s sole remaining Native American performer, keeping the legacy of the original concept alive. Every weekend three times a day, he performs the hoop dance: a mesmerizing show of skill and storytelling.
Before his first of three roughly 12-minute shows, he met Culture OC in a dining hall called Mrs. Murphy’s Kitchen across from the Ghostrider roller coaster. Like much of the park at this time of year, it’s decorated for Halloween.
Afterward, while having his photo taken for this piece, Wiskigeamatyuk asked that the holiday decor in the hall not be captured in the background. He wants people to understand that what he is wearing is not a costume. He’s worked hard over sharing his knowledge and love of his culture. An important part of that work is dispelling stereotypes of Native Americans.
When he first started, Wiskigeamatyuk gave presentations to schoolchildren for Knott’s Education Department. Educational outreach has been part of the park’s history since the 1950s, when the Knott family privately owned it (it’s now owned and operated by Six Flags).
Eventually, he began filling in for other performers as needed and watched as his coworkers and older mentors advocated for themselves.
“Some of our performers,” he said, “they had issues with going out a lot and walking around because some of the original people in charge during the ’90s and stuff used to want us to go out …. Most of our people, they call it ‘chiefing’ when you go out in your outfit, and you’re all dressed up walking around.
A Note on Clothing and Terminology
When we met with Wiskigeamatyuk, he wore clothing with intricate beadwork similar to what his relatives would have worn hundreds of years ago. For performances, he wears a simpler outfit enabling him to go in and out of the hoops without getting caught. The headdress he wears is referred to as a hair roach. He says, “Historically, my people wore these in our tribal communities, like people that fought in battles.” It was very customary for our people (to wear).”
“But even though we were true-blooded natives, we still didn’t like the idea because it almost felt like a zoo, and there’s no context. So I had fought against that here, and that’s what I tried to tell them — that we’re not characters. We’re actual people here, and that’s the one thing that I’ve always appreciated; they have listened, and some of the past leaders that were in charge, they eventually understood what I said.”
Wiskigeamatyuk is Anishnabe-Neshnabe with family and ancestral lands in the Great Lakes region. His Native name, Neshi-Wan-Met-Wahzigun, means “powerful or intense winds and lightning” — fitting, as he is from the Thunder Clan.
He is Potawatomi-Ojibwe-Meskwaki and Absentee Shawnee by blood and an enrolled member of the Prairie Band Potawatomi Nation of Kansas. His people were originally from the Great Lakes region before they were forcibly relocated to Kansas during the 1830s.
At age 10 or 12, he began to learn the social dances of his tribe. Social dances, like those performed at powwows, are not ceremonial — they can be shared with outsiders.
“In Native American culture(s) we have ceremonies,” he explained. “We have social customs which are like powwows, and then we have people that work in the realm like that I do: Which is entertainment and education, and I believe that there weren’t very many establishments that had Native American representation, and this was one of the first that really came.
There was another show down the road, which was a little bit more flashy, The Wild Bill’s Wild West Show (Wild Bill’s Wild West Dinner Extravaganza) … I was involved with that for about 10 years. But once that shut down, Knott’s really was the only one. Throughout the United States, there were many functions and places where American Indians would represent songs and dances, but it was never consistent … something once or twice a year. Powwows are scattered.”
He has performed many types of social dances over the years, but the hoop dance is perhaps closest to his heart. The hoop dance has existed among different tribes for centuries but its modern version was popularized in the 1930s by Tony Whitecloud of Jemez Pueblo. Whitecloud performed the hoop dance in the 1942 film “Valley of the Sun” and was the first to use multiple hoops, originally made of willow.
Today, the dance is performed with many hoops depending on the dancer, and is performed by both male and females (traditionally it was performed only by males) with hoops made of different materials like plastic and using different colors. It is even performed in competition.
In the version Wiskigeamatyuk performs, he maneuvers about 15 hoops around his body to form images meant to show respect to the natural world.
These shapes sometimes appear to be part of an extension of his body – you can imagine eagle wings extended or a figure of a butterfly emerging while watching. In the finale, he unites the hoops in a singular orb – a visual symbol of how the world is connected. Wiskigeamatyuk also recorded the narration at both the beginning and end of the show as well as the vocal track that accompanies it.
“At a young age,” he said, “my first introduction and love for the hoop dance came from Dennis Alley and his family dance troupe of the Otoe-Missouri tribe,” he wrote via email in a follow-up to our initial conversation.
“He was a great inspiration of positivity in my young life. Also, my good friend Robert Tree Cody, from whom I was also taught our Native American flute in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s.”
But Riley Sunrise (Quoyavema) of the Kiowa and Hopi people had the biggest influence on his relationship with the dance.
“Riley was the one who started the Native American village at Disneyland in 1955,” he said. “I used to bring him (to the park) in the ‘90s. He was approximately 90 years old …He was very close with Walter Knott and with Walt Disney, and he knew so much history.
“I don’t want to say he scolded me, but he told me, ‘It’s not a juggling dance, it’s a storytelling dance. It’s not about doing modern movements and juggling all these hoops and spinning and doing all that stuff. That’s OK a little bit, but the dance tells the story.’ “He was one of the reasons why I kind of changed the way I did my show.”
Wiskigeamatyuk grew up in Southern California but kept ties to his tribe in the Great Lakes region, visiting whenever he can. He lives about 15 minutes from the park with his wife, a daughter in college and a young son. He has passed on his tribal knowledge and traditions to his children.
He exercises regularly; keeping healthy is essential to performing at the level he does every week, and he credits the relationships he formed with other performers at Knott’s coming and his love of sports — especially basketball and track (he played with an NRC Nike league in Artesia for four years) for helping to keep him in a positive mindset.
Gary Wiskigeamatyuk performs the hoop dance at Knott’s Berry Farm. Photo courtesy of Knott’s Berry Farm 
Gary Wiskigeamatyuk on a visit to his tribal homelands in Michigan, 2024. Photo by Christine Terrisse, Culture OC
That positive outlook, along with his ability to adapt to change, is part of what helps him endure.
It can be a push and pull, adjusting cherished traditions to the needs of an amusement park, especially as attention spans have changed along with park ownership. Still, the veteran performer sees it as a rare opportunity to connect with others who may otherwise never have the opportunity to interact with someone like him.
“I meet amazing people from all over,” he said. “So for me, I looked at it as a place where I can perform, make money in the realities of life, but at the same time still be connected to my people and to engage with America … We get millions of people a year that come here, and I just felt like this is where I can talk and be open with American people.”
He has to walk a fine line when talking to guests. He’s noticed that some people want to engage with him on religion, ethnicity, politics or debate him on history. But most of the time, people want to connect.
“I’ve had, you know, some of the most famous people in the world that I’ve met and even become friends with over the years. I’ve had every walk of life come to my show,” he said. “And they all have questions about things that I try to be open and honest about; but the show, the dancing, and the songs-those, you know — I use that as a way where that moment is a moment where I kind of go into my own realm. As soon as I hear the song or I hear the music, I try to take the audience to a different place for just a small moment.”
The physical space allotted to showcasing Native American culture has shrunk over the years. For instance, there used to be a replica native village by an artificial body of water called Reflection Lake where the Silver Bullet roller coaster now stands.
Gary Wiskigeamatyuk performs at Indian Trails, 1997. Photo courtesy of Gary Wiskigeamatyuk 
Gary Wiskigeamatyuk performing the hoop dance at Knott’s Berry Farm, 1994. Photo courtesy of Gary Wiskigeamatyuk 
Gary Wiskigeamatyuk at Knott’s Berry Farm, October 2026. Photo courtesy of Gary Wiskigeamatyuk 
Gary Wiskigeamatyuk, Robert Tree Cody and Rodney Howard, original performers at Knott’s Berry Farm Indian Trail. Photo courtesy of Gary Wiskigeamatyuk 
A placard of Gary Wiskigeamatyuk’s ancestors in front of the Indian Trails stage, Knott’s Berry Farm. October 2026. Photo by Christine Terrisse, Culture OC
A lot of these changes to the original Indian Trails Wiskigeamatyuk had no control over, but he is grateful for the occasions where he has had leeway to create his own space. And while he has long had creative input over the years, it was the onset of the COVID pandemic that forced further streamlining of the show.
“I would do an eagle dance, do a hook dance, sing songs live on the drum, (play) Native American flute … I would do that live and then sometimes I would talk on the mic to the audience and connect them to what they just saw,” he said, recalling how the show used to be. “I restructured the show after COVID (to) the way it is now, because I was able to go on stage, do my performance, run back off stage, go into my room, and that was it. I think energy-wise, it moves well the way it does now.”
On the day of our interview, a heat wave hit, and for safety reasons the performance was canceled. Right after the announcement, I spoke with 21-year-old Matthew Cooper, a college student waiting for the show to begin who had come down from San Jose for the weekend. I asked him why he had waited.
“I feel like I don’t see this kind of thing very often,” Cooper said. “The last time I saw some (Native American) dance was at my school, and that was last semester. Before that it was here, two or three years ago … as I grew I got fascinated with the ability to do those kinds of dances especially because when I was younger all I cared about was my video games.”
When I returned the following weekend, the benches around the stage were full, and people were standing. When the show was in full swing, a young boy of about 4 years old broke out into his own joyous dance, spinning along to the sounds of Wiskigeamatyuk’s voice.
For the veteran performer, who has no plans to slow down anytime soon, his work has always been about much more than entertaining. He thinks of his father, Gary Wiskigeamatyuk Sr., and his grandfather, James Wahbnosah “Pam-Weh-Tuk” (Rolling Thunder) every time he gives a lecture or a presentation.
“A lot of our people,” he said, “look at the elders (who are) looking at the moon and the sun, and they’re seeing butterflies again, and they’re feeling the rain on their face — they’re feeling God — but in the middle, we forget. I think some of us in the realities of modern society forget these things. People have their phones in front of them … and they don’t look at trees anymore. They don’t look at butterflies. They don’t feel the wind …. They only look at storms coming through the news and how it’s going to devastate them. But my people looked at it (the wind) as a sense of power. That’s really what I’m doing in my dance. I’m trying to connect all humans back to that again, to let them see the butterflies, let them see the birds, you know, the animals and shapes I’m making, the moon, the sun. That’s really what my dance is about.”
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